


Don't Hold My Hand for Longer Than You Need To

by torakowalski



Category: Justified
Genre: And a Hug, M/M, Tim Gutterson Needs a Boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby refills Tim’s glass without prompting.  “You here to talk?”  </p><p>Tim just gives him a look that makes him laugh.  </p><p>“Okay, you here to fuck?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Hold My Hand for Longer Than You Need To

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on tumblr. The prompt was "Tim Gutterson gets a hot boyfriend," which is something that I am deeply committed to.

Tim is fast approaching the halfway point on tonight’s bottle of whiskey when a tan, long-fingered hand shoots out and picks up the bottle, tipping it just enough to fill a second glass. 

“Yeah, that’s mine,” Tim says, raising his eyes up from the scarred wood of the bar.

On the other side of the bar, Bobby Crowder shrugs and sips from the glass, wrinkling his nose before slamming the rest back and coughing. 

“You bought it from my bar, so that’s gotta mean it’s at least a little bit mine, right?” he says, leaning his elbow next to Tim’s hand, filling Tim’s vision with dark hair and soft brown eyes. It’s almost too much and Tim has to blink.

Tim shakes his head slowly. He’d shake it quicker, but he’s got a reputation as a laconic son of a bitch to maintain. That and he’s a little worried it might wobble clean off his shoulders. “That ain’t how that works.”

Bobby shrugs again. “Well, you’re the lawman,” he says, “you’d know.” He refills his glass with more stolen whiskey and glides down the bar toward a customer who’s starting to get antsy. 

Tim swirls his drink around his glass and watches Bobby work, too tired to pretend that he’s doing otherwise. No one here is paying him any mind; they won’t notice if his eyes are lingering a little long on Bobby’s ass in his tight black jeans.

Bobby turns on his heel, flirting casually over his shoulder while he reaches up to the top shelf for a clean glass. His plaid shirt comes loose from his jeans, revealing a patch of pale skin stretched over his hipbone.

Tim blames the alcohol for why Bobby catches him staring. Tim’s a goddamn trained sniper; he should not be caught out like that. Bobby grins, finishes up with his customer and makes his way back to Tim.

“Saw you looking,” he says, quiet enough that it’s only for Tim to hear.

Tim doesn’t answer; they both know he was looking. 

“Bad day?” Bobby asks. People are calling for his attention again, but he ignores them, letting his staff deal with them. Tim’s pretty sure Bobby only serves the customers he wants to serve, anyway. What it says that Bobby always serves him, Tim doesn’t want to think about.

“Regular day,” Tim says. “Little bit more Raylan than is preferable.”

Bobby tsks his tongue, trying and failing to look sympathetic. “Did he drag you to Harlan again? Get you shot at? Tied up? Eaten by pigs?”

Tim snorts even though he doesn’t mean to. “Not this week. There was a girl, though.”

Bobby refills Tim’s glass without prompting. “Ain’t there always. You here to talk?” 

Tim just gives him a look that makes him laugh. 

“Okay, you here to fuck?”

Tim’s shoulders tighten and he starts to look around even though he knows, he knows, that Bobby said it quietly, that Bobby’s not going to out him. “Not really,” he says, even though he’s always at least half wanting Bobby to take him to bed when he’s here.

“Huh.” Bobby leans both arms on the bar and looks Tim in the eye. “Well, I’m outta suggestions, then. What are you here for?”

“Booze.” Tim nods at his bottle. “Company.” He doesn’t nod at Bobby, but it’s not like it’s not obvious.

Bobby taps him twice on the forearm with the tips of two fingers. “You got that,” he says. “Wanna come ‘round back?”

Tim shouldn’t. He might not have come here for sex, but it’ll happen if he goes behind the bar, lets himself relax in Bobby’s apartment. But the bar’s giving him a headache and he’s fucking tired.

“Yeah.” He stands up, starting to bring his bottle with him.

Bobby shakes his head. “Leave that rot gut; I’ve got good stuff upstairs.” He lifts the hatch for Tim to come through then waggles his fingers near Tim’s belt, like he’d hook his fingers in his beltloops, pull him along, if they didn’t have an audience.

“You know,” Tim says a while later, his knee pressed up against Bobby’s knee, Bobby’s hand resting casually on his thigh. “Maybe I am here to fuck.”

Bobby snorts and rolls his head against the back of the couch and laughs. He looks drunker than Tim feels even though he’s drunk way less than Tim has. “My mama warned me against boys like you. Give ‘em your cherry one time and they come to expect it.”

Tim let his eyes sink closed, exhaustion and alcohol washing over him. “Yeah, well your mama married a Crowder, so forgive me if I don’t pay her too much mind.”

“Hey,” Bobby says, squeezing Tim’s leg like a kind of warning. 

“Sorry,” Tim says, smiling with his eyes still closed.

“You’re a dick,” Bobby tells him, way closer than before. He presses his mouth against Tim’s, kissing him sloppily.

“Thought your mama didn’t want us to fuck tonight,” Tim asks, returning the kiss and giving back more of the same. 

Bobby turns, swinging one long leg over Tim’s and settling into his lap. “Don’t talk about my mama and fucking in the same sentence,” he says, biting the skin behind Tim’s ear.

Tim opens his eyes, staring past the smudged halo of Bobby’s hair at the blue-painted wall behind him. “Don’t leave a mark,” he says.

Bobby freezes for a second then licks the skin he bit, humming a little. “I know, sugar. Don’t you worry.”

Tim puts his hands on Bobby’s narrow hips, squeezing like he can push sorry into Bobby’s skin. “I think maybe I’m in too shitty a mood for a fuck,” he says. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever said that to a guy before. The rule of hookups, as far as he’s learned ‘em, is that you go through with that shit, even if you realise halfway in that you’d rather be watching TV. This regular sex with the same person thing is fucking with all his rules.

Bobby leans his forehead against Tim’s. “S’okay,” he says. “You wanna just make out a little like naughty teenagers, instead?”

Tim presses in against him, liking the way Bobby doesn’t give way. “Sounds good,” he says and leans up for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Tim's Hot New Boyfriend is a Crowder. There’s a _lot_ of backstory in my head /o\


End file.
